up to work and done her job without complaint, but not a single word has been muttered in my direction. She’s pissed off because I didn’t tell her where I got that car, but would she have been any different if I’d told her sooner? I’m pretty sure the answer is “not a chance in hell.” So I’ve rewarded her silence with an air of indifference, speaking only when necessary. We’ll talk when she’s ready.
I’m currently pushing a weight into the air in midgrunt when Coach Reynolds walks up behind me and lowers his hands beneath the barbell. “That’s it, son. Give me another one of those. Focus on your breathing.”
Focus on your breathing is code for “calm the fuck down” in Coach-speak.
Breathing is one of the first things he ever taught me about how to control the terrible anger inside me. But that isn’t all. He taught me the responsibility of being on a team, which in turn helped me direct my impulses in a positive direction. He taught me compassion and empathy by understanding that my anger dwelled from a lonely childhood in which my father had become my child in a way. He gave me a family through football and the occasional dinner at his house, which helped immensely with my self-esteem and feelings of inclusiveness. He taught me respect. Respect for others. Respect for family. Respect for myself. Overall, he gave me the ticket to better myself with the skills he knew I already possessed, and I’ll forever be grateful. But I’m still nowhere near perfect.
“Good,” Coach says while he helps to lift the bar and secure it.
When I sit up, he takes a seat next to me on the bench. “I haven’t seen you work out like that in quite some time. Everything okay with your dad?”
I spin the cap off my water and take a long chug before shrugging my shoulders and looking at the floor. “Is anything ever okay with Pops? He’s out of rehab. Got a call from the facility last night.”
My father’s episodes have become a clockwork thing in the past four years. Hence my frequent travel back to Dallas, the last time being the trip when I met Faye. He’d just gotten out of rehab, and I rushed there, hoping that if I spent time with him when he was freshly sober, my chances of getting through to him would be better. I’ve found that the only way to speak to him when he’s halfway coherent is when he’s either in jail or at the rehab clinic. But no such luck. He wasn’t at his apartment when I arrived there. And then I saw the flashing lights of the police car a few blocks away.
“I should probably get out there soon to visit him.”
Coach nods. “Sounds like a good plan.” He tilts his head at me. “Something else bothering you?”
How well this man knows me is almost scary. I shrug again. “Besides your daughter being a royal pain in my ass, life is the same as always.”
Coach lets out a light chuckle. “I see. Well, she wouldn’t be a Reynolds if she wasn’t a pain in the ass, so I’ll have to take some credit for that one.”
I twist my neck to look at him with confusion. “She’s not a Reynolds, sir. She’s a Stevens.”
The humor leaves Coach’s eyes and face, and he nods. “Yes. I know her mom had the girls change their names. She’s still a Reynolds.”
The firmness in his tone halts me some. “She’s also still a pain in my ass.”
Coach smiles, but it’s not with the same humor as before. “I suppose she’s been through a lot. And being surrounded by constant reminders of a man she’s grown up hating can’t be easy either.”
“She doesn’t hate you, Coach. She wouldn’t still be so upset if she hated you. But she sure hates me.”
“Well,” Coach jeers with a squeeze of my shoulders, “can you blame her?”
I grin and shake my head. “Not really. Especially since she just figured out I’m driving your old car.”
Coach’s face falls, and I swear I see his throat bob like he just swallowed a gulp of guilt. “I imagine that didn’t go over so well.” His eyes glaze over just like Maggie’s did the other night. “She loved that car. She would always beg me to take her around the block a half million times.” He chuckles at the memory, his eyes turning sad. “She was my first baby girl, you know.”